The Morass of Life Proportions
by AcousticStorm27
Summary: A tale of evolving set at the pace of the seven deadly sins. Byakuya-centric. ByaRen/RenBya


**AN:** Warning: overuse of italics. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Pride**

Pride is all he has. Pride is the gleam of the kenseikan in his hair, the soft flurry of the exquisite scarf which adorns his neck, pride is his name, pride is his title. Pride is the straight spine, the resolute facial features which seldom change. Pride is the anchor, the routine, the pretense that keeps him going. Pride causes the barely hidden disappointment when no word of praise or mere reconnaissance leaves the noble's lips. Pride is in the slight twitch of the hand which unforgivably reaches out to touch silk, pride is in locking away, forgetting and interdicting feeling.

His pride will never be touched.

* * *

 **Gluttony**

Byakuya has never particularly enjoyed food. Perhaps it came from the wide assortment of tastes that were offered to him before he could utter the words. Growing up with the finest threats, the taste and texture of –food- seemed nothing like a dull grey when coming in contact with his tongue. The fact that reminders of duty, of honour and of pride started mostly when trays of food touched the table put him off the feeling, and thus the weight of –food- on his tongue was acknowledged as nothing but a necessity.

As a crimson lock falls on top of a carefully adorned plate of onigiri, he reaches to pick it up absent-mindedly and reckons that he had always known where his next meal came from. He glances at the lithe form next to him, robbed in a pale white yukata with pink flowers sewn into it, yukata which shows now stains of today's wide menu. As the figure next to him shoves food unceremoniously into his mouth and downright moans around a mouthful, head thrown back, Byakuya slowly brings a piece of onigiri into his mouth and realizes it now tastes like red.

* * *

 **Wrath**

Renji has never seen his captain angry before, not in the mortal way of the humans, with a red face, clenched fists and the impression that you can see steam coming out of the ears, shouting violently at anything. No, Kuchiki-taichou shows only one sign of anger: squinting eyes. But again, he uses that for pretty much everything, from surprise to distress to nervousness, excitement, apprehension, concentration. Renji has gotten just a bit better at discerning these feelings one from another, as well as the actions needed to cause said certain reactions.

Byakuya is thinking. His mind wanders back until a long time ago, when he was a brat, unaware of his level of responsibility and the importance of his composure. Back then, Byakuya flared his temper and his reiatsu at the slightest of disturbances against the way he liked things, and thus was easily provoked by the likes of Shihouin. He did not see the danger to his reputation this attitude brought, and started keeping it inside only after the scoldings and beatings took their effect on his mind. After some time, upon inheriting the Kuchiki and the responsibility coming with it, he saw by himself the importance of his lack of anger and stern reputation.

It doesn't mean that his anger is not as easily brought about these days. It is, but it is simply kept inside.

Renji considers it a quality of his, the fact that he can be quite annoying. A writing brush being put down and a lewd grin thrown to the hunched form of his captain over his desk usually start the whole thing. Byakuya despises anything interfering with his duties, especially something as frivolous as sex. Renji quite enjoys a quickie in the office once in a while, as his status as a captain and the desires of a lover don't quite have time to part in Byakuya's mind like usual, and this usually makes his captain quite confused and… angry, mostly with the fact that he cannot contain himself. So what Renji gets is the paperwork on his desk thrown away on the floor, because Kami forbid anything of sorts could happen to his captain's, and his back hitting the hard wood until quick hands push up and rip at his clothing, not patient enough to remove. Legs thrown around his captain's waist, he gets little preparation before he is entered hard, in one swift push. If Renji ever needs confirmation that he's a sick bastard, it's in these moments, when his captain is angry enough for it to hurt, and all he can do is enjoy it. And moan his name. Loudly. Which serves to only further anger Byakuya, not yet out of his captain state, and thus definitely not allowing insubordination and such informal name calling.

His fukutaichou is the only one who can make him release his fury like that. In the end, it turns up quite well for the both of them.

* * *

 **Lust**

He had always thought love was the giddy feeling of the heart raising to the vicinity of the throat when the chiming laughter of your lover is carried by the wind on a warm spring morning, pink sakura petals contrasting with the black of the hair, the sickness of the figure long forgotten.

He never thought love also had this form, the vicious monster taking control of his body, flailing his limbs and thrashing his body around, trying to find purchase on silken sheets and gain dominance of the situation. But this vicious monster is obviously not as powerful as the real him, if the weight resting on him and hard angles of the figure above him forcefully pinning him down to the futon are anything to go by. The monster scratches, bites, curls his toes, clenches, marvels at barely there fingerprint bruises on hips and the slight pain brought by them, desires the rough thrusts and jabs which make his eyes cross and his composure fall apart with small sounds and a tightening of legs around a waist, urges the heat in his body to travel to the place he needs it the most just when he finds it slightly unbearable to continue. And most of all he despises this monster rearing its head time after time, as where it is the most important to assert his dominance and keep his composure, Byakuya lusts to be _wrecked_.

* * *

 **Envy**

The yells, grunts and sharp sounds of metal on metal inform him that the fighting is still going strong, despite the clock striking lunch time. The imposing figures on the training ground seem unaware of this fact, as they continue to bring their ferocious swords down, one against another, orange versus red in an immense show of strength. The few Shinigami watching, even though far from the place, seem shocked and amazed at the display, as a sparring of this kind is rarely witnessed. The captain looks at his lieutenant fighting his friend, and is struck by the wild, animalistic, raw grin which matches the rest of his features, and for a moment, he is envious.

Envious of the orange haired now captain, as he is able to bring forward this type of freedom out. He realizes with that deep envy now burning in him that as his lieutenant, Renji is supposed to be restrained and obedient, but not even in the throes of passion has his lover ever been so unrestrained. He supposes his boyfriend, as grudgingly as Rukia decides to call them these days, has always held back.

And that is unforgivable. Byakuya decides that he will step up, and wonders if that vicious monster's darkness isn't already a bit too close to a Hollow's.

* * *

 **Greed**

Kuchiki Byakuya does not really know the meaning of the word _'less'._ He has also encountered problems with comprehending the fact that _you don't always get what you want_. Because when he considers something lacking, or _less_ than it should be, he makes it so _he always gets what he wants_.

Perfection is something you should strive for, but something that doesn't exist. Or, better said, we shall call it _enough_. Oh, another concept he can't quite grasp. As, you see, nothing is really _enough._ He always had that itch he cannot get far enough to scratch. Even when he got what he wanted, the truth came forward in the form of that not being _enough_ for what he actually _needed_.

And there's not much that could quench his thirst. He used to revel in the presence of the haori and the scarf, but material things started holding no importance at one point anymore, nothing more than little trinkets, no matter how significant they should be, and those material symbols of power were later either discarded or looked over. Even when he reached that point of power where those symbols were not needed anymore to show his position and he did not quite have anyone to look up to or answer to anymore, it was still not quite _enough_.

His desires are rather subdued, nowadays, a dull hum against his conscience that sometimes voices its desire for _more_. But it's fine, as every time he is fucked harder into the mattress and loved even harder after, the voice gets just a little bit quieter, and he thinks enough is not that far along in the future.

* * *

 **Sloth**

When in the comfort of privacy, Renji does not allow no for an answer. Byakuya rarely says it anyway then, so it's not quite a problem.

However, he is tempted to try to do so now.

"What about the new recruits' paperwork?"

"Signed and sent to Yamamoto-soutaichou."

"Night patrols?"

"Organized and going."

"The drills for the unseated members?"

"Planned for Monday."

"Talking with the cleaning crew?"

"Done."

"The…"

"Byakuya, shut up." He still quite frowns at his name slipping so easily from the redhead's lips. "It's not up for question. We're taking a day off tomorrow."

"I have never taken a day off." He shrugs confused.

"I know. But I want to see what's this thing with people taking a day off once in a week. They seem less stuck-up when they return." Renji's slightly accusing, definitely not amused smirk is a sight on him, completed with hands folded on his chest. Byakuya frowns.

* * *

He glanced accusingly at the sun shining decidedly brighter than usual for the time when he wakes up. Besides him, the barely clothed body is on his back, limbs spread everywhere, mouth wide open and snoring softly, a few strands of crimson hair rising up and down from his mouth with his breathing. His mouth can't help curling up that much and out of its own accord, his pointer finger reaches out to ghost over the planes of his lover's torso and stomach.

He turns on his side and reaches closer, drapes an arm over the sleeping figure, lays his head on an outstretched arm and burrows himself in red, reaching over to tuck in more comfortably in the juncture of head and neck and closes his eyes. It strikes him just how natural and easy all that is, and the sun continues to blame him and send rays of heat on his back through the open curtains swaying, just serving to make him more comfortable.

When he hears quiet footsteps which stop at his door presumably to listen if the occupants of the room are awake, he realizes he has duties to do, orders to call out, papers to fill and a whole division, as well as a Clan to run.

Maybe tomorrow.


End file.
